Dennis

A Gift

All her fault. Even after all this time that thought came unbidden to Lauren’s mind. Her doctor had taught her that this was a self defeating thought, and he was right rather more often than not. Pity about the name though. Dr Love. You’d really want to change that wouldn’t you? I mean he was a shrink for heavens sake, and the moniker was just a little too Bris-Vegas for her tastes. A little too eighties. Still he was highly regarded – and undeniably good for her. And just quietly, his somewhat dazzling green eyes and honey tan didn’t make it too hard to keep appointments either. She smiled to herself briefly, and abruptly shook off the distraction and strode forward.

The noise as she walked seemed inordinate. Why did she wear these shoes? Why on this morning when invisibility was all she craved did these ridiculously deafening Ferragamo sandals leap on to her feet? Why did these vulgar places insist on such polished terrazzo nightmares underfoot anyway. Why pay tribute to mobility carts and vomit reparation? Why was she enduring this? These sandals should be whispering over warm soft sand she thought, A memory of softly waving date palms, and bright bright stars surfaced again as she wistfully recalled another kind of palm clasped warmly within her own. But that was another younger time before the reality of sweat and middle aged embarrassment robbed the delight from impulsive action. Grown women don’t do that sort of thing, no matter who makes their shoes.

It had taken her a year to make that first appointment. December. Everything always seemed to start and finish at Xmas. A year later she first told him of the gift. Another year and his insights had brought her here. Some things cannot be destroyed - but they can be passed on.

A sharp squeal shattered her brief reverie, bringing reality into sharp focus rather too closely in front of her. A small dark haired girl was mercilessly beating a somewhat larger boy with all the concentration of a prize fighter. Evidently she thought the pram in which he was seated was rightfully hers. And too be perfectly honest it did appear rather too small for his troll like girth. But the shrill wail emanating from his chocolate crusted mouth could have flayed flesh from bone. A precious talent highly sought after by certain Korean dictators no doubt, but apparently unnoticed by his mother who stood impervious to the weapon of mass destruction she had spawned and the pummeling he endured.

Lauren reacted with pity. Motherhood was a road she could never even contemplate walking – even in exquisite sandals. The responsibility of another psyche in her care? God knows it had taken enough time and cash in therapy to navigate her own way out of the minefield of parental trauma, without laying a fresh field for the next generation.


p.2

Her eyes flicked to the grubby pink sneakers. With an involuntary shudder, she saw the woman she might have been. There but for the grace of Prada, clutching a slightly rusted shopping trolley and dreaming of exotic warmth -just like her. Difference was the troll mother would never stroll across warm African sands at midnight, even in grubby sneakers, and the two sweaty palms she regularly clutched were smaller than the one Lauren’s fantasy evoked. Even in the midst of warm memories, the turning points in your life sometimes hit you with the suddenness of a snowball. Cold and hard and there all along if you only thought to scoop it all together yourself first. A rare joy flowed through her, and suddenly -in that moment- enduring this Christmas became easier than before. And that was a change for the better at least.

She had spent her first Christmas in this country sitting next to the scarecrow that had once housed her father’s vibrant energy. Even as he lay on the metal bed and the cancer ate away the remnants of his bowel he still reached for the gift she had given him so thoughtlessly in a colder climate all those years before. An African treasure whose beauty surpassed the status of mere souvenir. Each time she had passed it to him, she discovered how much pain a smile could cover.

Xmas had just never felt right since. She tried blaming the heat. It’s easier to escape in a Winter Season. They have things to drink that will warm you inside when you have nothing left to warm yourself. They call them spirits for a reason. And they help. At least for a while… till you feel better…or warmer at least… more spirited. Next year I’ll go where it’s snowing she decided yet again. It’s a different view. A great concealer - the truth not erased, but completely hidden. Wrapped. Not even Xmas morning can tear its away its cover. Nature is much more sensible than man. But then she’s a woman and they are supposed to understand intrigue. Mother Mata Hari…

In successive years she had discovered this seductively warm land of beer and prawns cloaked a dangerous ennui. Even though the December light has a dazzling clarity, everyone wears shades. You can still see, but everything is greyer, and it had caused her to delay for too long.

The wailing had stopped and Lauren suddenly realized she was still staring at the woman. Unnerved by Laurens intensity, the woman smiled uncertainly and grabbing the two malignant offspring, maneuvered her collection of wheeled accessories with surprising dexterity towards K-mart. Hopefully to shop for shoes. But she had already given Lauren an unintentional gift and so thus bolstered, she ignored the distracting sandals and strode towards her goal with a new sense of purpose.




p.3

She placed the parcel nonchalantly amid the others, hoping no one could detect what it cost her to make that seemingly most simple of gestures. Another piece of the past shed ...or lost. Released perhaps – but never forgotten of course. Still she felt a new hope rising inside. Well it was Christmas wasn’t it? Surely it had been hope that had kept the yearly Christian festive season… well…festive? That and Westfield of course. Here with their echoing floors and massive Charity tree. Nevertheless she couldn’t deny the thrill of discovering a little hope resurfacing even at the beginning of her fourth decade. Surely that counts for something she thought with a smile. Looking up she could see the shiny baubles of hope sparkling amid the pine branches above. Ho ho hope. She noticed the lights seemed to twinkle brighter on the tree. For a brief moment the baubles shone like rhinestones on a Bassey gown.


He stepped dutifully toward the tree - a sacrifice before its pagan lusts. At its foot the blood of a thousand new disappointments lay veiled in the gaudy bondage of good intentions. Looking up he could see the shiny baubles of commercialism clinging precariously to the fake plastic branches. He thought they looked faded - like a theatre costume whose fragile glamour was now rancid with the sweat of too many encores. Never again he had sworn. Never ever again. But here only 12 months later the resolve that seemed carved so deeply into his heart a year ago lay shattered for the 12th time. One month to forget each year-and 12 days of Christmas. Perhaps coincidence was cheaper by the dozen too.

The bright blue bow untied easily as the slim young man pulled at its ends. Underneath the unruly bright red hair his green eyes marveled at the shiny expensive paper beneath. In all his life he could never remember receiving such a beautifully wrapped present. Presents were rare anyway, when you had as few parents as he did. And now a stranger had randomly passed this special beauty to him. To be his own special Christmas gift.

The white paper unfolded by itself. No need of tape here with such meticulous creases at each corner. He paused for a moment then withdrew the slender wooden box within. Confusion creased his forehead then slowly eased as he turned it over, running the tips of his fingers lightly over the intricate inlaid pattern. As he did, a panel slid open to reveal a series of hollow tubes. A bullet case he thought uncertainly. Then as the final realization dawned he smiled and quickly concealed the unexpected contraband. How on earth did this slip through? The perfect excuse. A New Years resolution that now need never be made. And the smiling 12 year old boy headed for the tobacconist to fill the magazine of the darkly beautiful Moroccan cigarette case.